The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s. Brian Aldiss
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decent in human conduct. Isolated from others of his kind, Wyvern had vaguely imagined that a telepathic community (supposing such a thing should ever exist or had existed) would be free from vice; given such a powerful instruments of understanding, surely it would always consider the feelings of its fellows which it could learn so easily? Now he saw the fallacy of his assumption; telepathy was a gift which lay in its place alongside all the other human traits, good or bad. There could no more be a true brotherhood of telepaths than there could be a true brotherhood of man.
‘Get these bands off my legs,’ Wyvern ordered. ‘You’re going to let me go free out of here.’
‘No! Oh no, I can’t let you go now I’ve found you!’
‘Wait! Colonel H’s little pal told me there was another telepath. What was his name – Grimslade? What did you do to him?’
‘You mean Grisewood? I never got near enough to him to communicate … Don’t remind me of him – he died horribly, when they tried to couple him to Big Bert. That must be the worst pain of all; I pray I never come to that!’
‘Get these shackles off me!’ Wyvern said.
Tears ran from Parrodyce’s eyes. His spectacles misted. He fumbled at the locks by Wyvern’s ankles. When they were undone, he lay helplessly where he was at the foot of the chair.
‘You’re going to betray me to H! You’re going to betray me,’ he muttered, over and over again.
‘If I betrayed you, I’d betray myself,’ Wyvern said in a hard voice. He was testing out his legs; they just held him. Parrodyce, too, got slowly to his feet.
‘That’s right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If you betray me you betray yourself.’
He mended visibly. Some degree of colour returned to his face. He could see there was hope for himself.
‘I can get you safely out of here by just giving the word,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it at once.’
He turned and went slowly back to his cabinets. He began to speak into a concealed phone in something like his old manner. When he finished, he pushed the phone back and came and put his hand on Wyvern’s arm.
‘I’m in control of myself again now,’ he said. ‘It was the shock of finding another telepath at last. I must have a drink. Let me give you one, too. They only allow me a stingy bit each day, or I try to drown my sorrows.’
Wyvern curtly refused the drink when it was offered. Parrodyce drank it off and poured himself another.
‘I’m kept down here,’ he said. ‘My life’s pure misery, Wyvern, I swear it is. They’ve given me an assistant just recently, a fellow called Joe Rakister. The company’s good for me – it’s just someone to talk to, you know. I’ve become quite fond of Rakister, in my own way, you know. But all the while I’m afraid he’s really one of H’s men, sent to spy on me. I’m getting a bag of nerves, Wyvern; I never used to be like this, even during the Fourth War. I suppose it’s the feed-back effect of the torture. I don’t get any pleasure out of it. At least – well, I’m sorry afterwards. Sick, you know. In my dreams they come back and do all the things to me I’ve done to them.’
His hand started quivering. He put the glass down, biting his lip, and suddenly swung round to confront Wyvern.
‘For God’s sake do something for me,’ he begged.
‘What?’
‘If you ever get the chance – I want you to communicate with me. Oh, I know what it must be like for you: free-diving in a cesspool … But you’ve got to find what I’ve got wrong with me, Wyvern. You’ve got to go down and find it, and try and put it right. It must be something buried right down in my id, I don’t know what: something someone did to me when I was a kid in a pram, perhaps. Psychiatrists can’t do anything. But you could! You’re telepathic, Wyvern! You could put me straight again, Wyvern.’
Yes, Parrodyce was right. He was just one of the bits of horrible mess man had infested his world with. If you could, you put it right; even if it did no ultimate good, the gesture satisfied you yourself. And that was something.
‘If I get the chance, I will, Parrodyce,’ Wyvern said. ‘Now I want to go.’
Parrodyce thanked him hopelessly, and handed him over to the nurse.
‘I spoke to H’s secretary,’ were Parrodyce’s last words. ‘You’ll be allowed out the main gate.’
He went back into his silent torture chamber, polishing his spectacles and shaking his head.
The nurse handed Wyvern over to the corporal. The corporal gave him his clothes and watched him dress.
‘Not a mark on you, except that bruised shin,’ he exclaimed wonderingly.
‘Where are my belongings?’ Wyvern asked.
‘Just going to get them. In a hurry, aren’t you?’
He produced them in an old toffee tin. Wyvern looked rapidly through them; everything was there except two items: the ticket to Luna and his passport. He looked sharply up at the corporal.
‘Something missing?’ the latter asked. ‘This was the Colonel’s secretary’s orders. He told me to give you this.’
He produced a grubby envelope from a tunic pocket. It contained the Luna ticket and the passport, torn to tiny shreds.
A private soldier led Wyvern upstairs and out across the barrack square. It was still raining. Wyvern had no coat, but he scarcely noticed the wet. With a minimum of formality, he was let through the gate into freedom: they had ceased to be interested in him.
He had no option but to walk home, exhausted as he felt. Before dawn, the rain ceased. The sun rose behind cloud. The country was fine and still, trees bending in luxuriant summer growth, dripping moisture into the ground. Grass blades shimmered like harmless spears. The birds rejoiced in the new daylight.
At last Stratton Hall was in sight. It would be empty now, except for the two old servants, as empty as Wyvern felt. He had no hope. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, was a girl he might have loved. Now he would never get to her. There was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do.
A car engine sounded behind him as he turned into the drive gates. Instinctively, he flinched. Had they come to get him back again already? Perhaps he shouldn’t have returned here at all; he could have lost his identity and become one of the many nomads who tramped the countryside.
But the driver of the car wore no uniform. He pulled up in a spray of mud and called out, ‘Is this place Stratton Hall?’ He looked about eighty, but his voice was young and sharp.
‘Yes.’
‘You just going in? Well I’m Government Mail. Give this to Mr Conrad Wyvern for me, and spare me half a mile.’
He was off. Wyvern looked blankly at the green envelope. He stuffed it in a damp pocket and trudged up the drive. A side door had been carelessly left open. The servants seemed to be still asleep; even the Flyspy was not stirring in its metal nest.
Wyvern sank wearily onto his bed before opening the envelope and reading its contents. Then he sat recalling the discontented voice of Captain Runton saying: ‘There’s a lot of reorganisation needed here – everyone lives in watertight compartments. No government department knows what the next one is up to.’ He began to smile. Then he began to laugh. He laughed helplessly, stupidly, until he was out of breath.
He had just received a government warrant to report to the Ss Aqualung at 1200 hours on that date for service on Luna. The warrant overrode any such formalities as passports or tickets.
IV
For the first part of the brief journey to the moon, Wyvern slept. Even when he felt himself again, he hardly left his tiny